


Homage for the Proud

by thereichenbachqueen (waywardmuppet)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adlock, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blackmail, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Content, Thriller, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardmuppet/pseuds/thereichenbachqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler knows how to get herself out of any dangerous situation; she doesn't need help, doesn't need pity, and certainly will never allow herself to break her own rules. However, when Magnussen's blackmail threatens to bring her entire world toppling down, she's forced to consider some very difficult and exhausting options. How long can she pretend she's alright before admitting the need for help - without making herself into a cliched damsel in distress? And how long will a certain consulting detective take to realize that something is wrong with the woman he's always kept tabs on, (and that he cares far more than he's willing to admit)? In summary, this is the story of two souls, heavy with pride, that come together in order to overcome a darkness that will threaten every semblance of peace they've come to know and appreciate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_"It's like you're screaming, and no one can hear. You almost feel ashamed - that someone could be that important, that without them, you feel like nothing. No one will ever understand how much it hurts. You feel hopeless, like nothing can save you. And when it's over, and it's gone; you almost wish that you could have all that bad stuff back - so that you could have the good."_

_– Agyness Deyn; ‘We Found Love’_

Read **all** the tags and warnings. This is not a light read, and should be read at one's own discretion. In this chapter, there is most definitely sexual coercion. Yes, that amounts to rape, no matter how one slices it. Blackmailing a person into sex is not, and will not ever be, okay. That being said, though the description is not explicitly graphic, it is important for every reader to be aware of before they begin. Also, it is important to note that other chapters will, of course, be longer. However, I thought it was best to let this stand alone. Thank you.

* * *

 

 She knows exactly where he is before she even opens her eyes.

_Left corner, lips turned up, inching closer and doing a lackluster job of trying to be quick about it. Just like most men – always so slow._

It almost makes her laugh, save for the fact that she can feel his breath now – and _that’s_ disconcerting, if only a small bit.

She doesn’t need to _look_ to see this happening, of course.

Irene just knows.

She _always_ knows.

“I take it then,” she says, pausing before her lips curve upwards into a smile – unable to help the tightness of it, unable to help the fact that her fingernails are sinking themselves deeper into her palms as her eyes open – “That what you’d like is _me_. Very…vanilla, you know. I find it, personally, to be heavily predictable.”

She still hasn’t forgiven herself for letting this happen; she’s supposed to have the edge, have the last say, be the “end all be all” in these kinds of situations. That’s how it works, how it always works, how it always _should_ work.

Luck has not been running with her, however. Not since her undeniable rescue in Karachi, prompted by a man whose name she _won’t_ think of right now, because she’s Irene Adler and she can and will get herself out of anything.

Dead women hold a lot of secrets; dead women hold a lot of value.

Dead women, she thinks, are supposed to be _dead_.

So why is Charles Magnussen smirking into her skin?

“I own you.”

He lets the sentence hang there for a moment before continuing, cutting off Irene’s huffed out laugh.

“Don’t pretend that you’re safe, Miss Adler–”

And ah, there it is. Irene’s identity is in his mouth, at risk to be out and publicized. It doesn’t take a genius to know she’ll go from ghost to ground if she allows this man to speak out beyond the walls of this room – which, certainly, she will not.

“Oh, I’m not going to beg, Mister Magnussen. I’m sure we can work something out.”

Easy, she thinks. Simple, even as his tongue burns a trail up her cheek and her stomach coils and she feels for the first time in years like she’s _losing_.

“You will find me very agreeable, Miss Adler, so long as you remain compliant. I am an important man, and I know when I’m being fooled.”

Irene almost smiles, feeling the familiar tug of hope dig itself into her resolve; his arrogance will win her the game – his control may seem iron-tight now, but she’ll win. She knows she will.

(She can’t even stomach the thought of losing.)

“Mm, yes. I think I could live with this. Although,” she takes a breath, eyes hard as she pushes out the words, “You _will_ call me Elizabeth, Magnussen. We can’t have my name falling from your pretty mouth too often, lest it becomes a disgusting habit.”

She’s surprised at how easily the faux compliments fall; at how easy it is to swallow back her fear and paint on her seduction.

 _A façade_ , she thinks. Just a façade. A game, really, something she won’t have to remember but something she needs to _win_.

This isn’t her job (never has been, never will be) but Irene wants to _live_ and self-preservation rules all.

(The need for payback, for revenge that will spread through her bloodstream and make it boil like poison, remains desperately unspoken.)

When he kisses her, she remains in control. Her lips part and she breathes in his blackmail, his conceit, his cowardice and lies.

(She thinks it’s quite possibly the worst thing she’s ever tasted.)

When he groans, she plays her part; she curls her hand around his neck and makes him believe –because she has to, _has_ to make him believe – she’s not disgusted by him.

When he pushes her back and her legs collide with soft fabric, she smiles and flips them so that she’s on top – because she has to be, needs to be, to ensure her face paint sticks. He even allows it for a while, but soon – too soon – they’re flipping again and it’s harder to keep the emotion from her face, though her nails are digging deeper into her palms. She closes her eyes and responds accordingly, ignoring the coiling in her stomach because this isn’t her job (never has been, never will be) but Irene wants to live and will do anything to win.

(There’s a voice in her head that tells her she’s _moderately_ clever, so she should find a new solution.)

Once again, Irene almost smiles.

_I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Mr.Holmes._


	2. Discovery

**Nine Months Later**

There is always a certain excitement that comes with a new case – a certain thrill that, when acted upon, stifles the boredom that would otherwise consume the detective’s accelerated mind.

(It goes without saying then, that these two weeks without anything significant to do are grating on Sherlock’s last nerves.)

John is almost always out with Mary, and without a proper excuse, it feels ridiculously juvenile to demand the doctor’s attention.

(Not that his attention isn’t needed, of course.)

Sherlock can feel the familiar twitching of his fingers, the gun just within reach. He desperately wants to shoot his exasperation into the wall, to watch as the paint cracks and gives way to the bullet’s force. However, the only thing keeping him from this wonderful source of entertainment currently resided downstairs – and the thought of disturbing Mrs. Hudson at two o’ clock in the morning oddly does not sound as appealing as it used to.

(Sentiment. Always, _always_ a disadvantage.)

He finds that it most certainly is disturbing to consider his newfound acceptance of friends – especially when, he recalls, his attempts at keeping himself distanced from others now seem haphazard at best. He blames himself for his current situation, of course. He blames himself even as he retreats into the walls of his mind palace, seeking out the catalyst for such irritating chemical defects.

(Avoidance can only last so long – and in the end, denial always exacerbates the problem.)

She’s there, of course.

(Sherlock’s not sure if it’s relief or dread that pumps through his bloodstream upon seeing her.)

“Woman.”

She never smiles right away, and this time is no different. She’s a constant, never a variable, and he’s come to find her presence comforting. When she takes his hand and leads him through his grandiose safe-haven, she smiles only when he lets out an annoyed huff – it’s not as if he needs directions within his own _head_.

(He still doesn’t pull his hand from hers, intent on seeing his chosen distraction to the end.)

When The Woman had first come to exist within his manmade kingdom, Sherlock had, obviously, attempted to shut her out. He had built a room for her out of obligation only, cataloging every bit of useful information that could be considered useful to her case. Her feelings for him were attached to her mobile; her profession attached to a whip; her passwords attached to her measurements; her eyes attached to –

Ah, yes – that had been his first clue. Irene Adler’s room had gone from ‘need to know’ to ‘everything at all’. And it had, unfortunately, never been enough. Nothing he knew about her satisfied his curiosity, and soon The Woman’s room eventually broke through his iron-clad ban on sentiment, her presence no longer contained. Her perfume permeated his senses while on cases; her smirk distracted him, even when busy.

(Sentiment, always sentiment, _always_ a disadvantage.)

His fault then, the current situation. The Woman saves him from boredom but increases his emotional vulnerability. It is, he thinks – tightening his hold on her fingers – an interesting sort of trade-off.

(Briefly, he notes that he’ll never see her again anyway, so he shouldn’t feel guilty for indulging the fantasy.)

“You’re bored, Mr. Holmes. Why don’t you solve me a case? Or have you already lost your touch?”

They’ve made their way to the most intimate part of his palace without his noticing; there are pictures associated with early memories along with small snapshots of John and Redbeard. He vaguely notes the addition of a rose on the bedside table and concludes that it must be because he misses the phantom imitation of Irene that is now in front of him, so thoroughly distracting him.

He’s aggravated, but not in a way he’s accustomed to.

“Woman,” he repeats himself, throat constricting around the syllables of an endearment that means much, much more than it should.

She’s naked now, and he’s not certain when that happened, which serves to annoy him further. He’s Sherlock Holmes, he doesn’t miss things, especially not within his own _memories_ for god’s sake.

“I would have you right here.”

His eyes close and he groans, wanting nothing more than to accept an offer they’d only ever acted upon in person nearly a year ago, after an adrenaline-high escape.

He finds the tension and frustration is now oddly welcome as her fingers brush over his jawline.

“Sherlock.”

Not her voice – a man’s. Interesting, but he’s too busy to think on it anymore. Not when she’s already –

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell have you _done_?”

The mind palace’s walls – and, consequently, the woman inside of it – fall away, shattering as the detective’s eyes shoot open.

The first thing he notices is John’s anger. He’s supposed to be out with Mary, but the way his fingers are twitching indicates some sort of interruption. Ah, he left early then – but why?

“You’re angry with me,” Sherlock ventures, “but I can’t understand why. I would have thought the retreats into my mind palace would be very dull and expected by now, and you can hardly blame me for not noticing you earlier when I was examining details of a case.”

John’s jaw is clenching, and that, more than anything, catches Sherlock’s interest. Obviously, he’s missed something.

(There’s _always_ something.)

“You’re right about my anger, Sherlock – just like bloody always! But I am not – I am not amused. This – Sherlock, this is crazy! _Why_ did you do this?”

There’s a tight pause in which Sherlock turns over the question asked in his mind; however, he can’t think of anything he’s done recently that would prompt such a dramatic response. Which means – ah, an emergency, then.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

His words are sharper than he originally intends for, but he’s not interested in offering apologies – not when John’s looking more and more peeved by the second.

“John–”

“No. No, mate, you’ve gone too bloody far.”

The confusion is instantaneous, washing over the detective even as he stands from his previous spot on his chair.

“John – what in the world are you going on about, because I honestly have no idea.”

For a moment, neither of them speak; the doctor’s labored breathing is the only sound Sherlock can hear, and for some reason, it seems far more threatening than ever before.

“You. Complete. Arse.”

There are of course, very few times when Sherlock considers himself capable of being surprised – this, however, is undoubtedly one of those times.

“I–”

“She’s alive. The Woman. She’s alive, and you – you didn’t tell me. You lied. You sat there and lied for _months_ letting me think she was dead, when all this time it was you that saved her, wasn’t it?”

Shock, cold and paralyzing, stiffens Sherlock’s muscles, locking them in place and preventing any chance of reprieve. He tries unsuccessfully to say something, to deny the accusations and dismiss them – _dull, John, incredibly dull_. The words stick in his throat however, the denials and lies falling just short of escaping the confines of his mouth. It takes a few moments until he’s straightening himself, eyes hardening as he feigns only casual interest.

“How?”

John’s not an idiot – Sherlock knows the man will understand the question. So, the detective busies himself with a sudden interest in the window, unwilling to look, even for a moment, as though he cares about the current conversation topic.

“Mycroft,” John says. “Mycroft found out she’s alive and has been feeding sensitive information about the government to one of Moriarty’s men.”

“ _Impossible_.”

All acts of disinterest abandoned, Sherlock turns, hissing through his teeth once more.

“That’s impossible. I destroyed that entire network. None of it was left untouched – I checked. Thoroughly.”

“Yeah, well…” John sighs, shifting back and forth in an obvious display of discomfort. “You missed something, then. A very big something.”

The weight of the realization almost knocks the detective breathless – years of work, of isolation, of cuts, bruises, and kills – wasted. All wasted. Still though, there’s one thought that provokes him onward, that demands his immediate focus and attention.

(In all honesty, however, he’s not sure he wants the answer.)

“What does this have to do with Irene?”

Her name is pulled from him before he can reign it back in, and the strangeness of it doesn’t go unnoticed by John.

“Er – The Wom – Irene," John corrects, "Well, Mycroft believes she's helping gather that information. Everything fits, and it’s like before…”

There is a sickness spreading in his gut, darkening any previous warmth that Sherlock had been experiencing only moments ago, locked safely away in his head. For a second, he even feels violated, his skin burning with the knowledge that she could have betrayed him so thoroughly – again.

(Always, _always_ a disadvantage.)

But – Sherlock thinks, fingers pressing desperately against his temples – it doesn’t make any sense. The sum of the parts - her smile, infectious laughter, dilated pupils, enraptured eyes, rapid heartbeat (he refuses, absolutely refuses to think about her lips fitting against his own and the words spoken while she merged with his skin) –  they do not equal the whole, because he knows those breaks in guard _can’t_ be fake.

“No, that makes no sense, and you’ve got no proof. Not exactly an excellent start, is it John? No matter – I’m going out.”

He’ll find her himself; the need to ask her why in god’s name she was so careless after everything they’d done to ensure her safety is boiling through his flesh.

(He needs to ask her if what John’s saying is true.)

“Sherlock–” John starts, but the detective’s brushing past him, coat and scarf already equipped as he heads out of the flat.

_No. It’s impossible._

His steps are unforgivably fast as he very nearly throws himself down the stairs, yanking open the front door – only to stumble backwards, letting out a harsh breath.

“Sherlock,” she says.

(Then she’s collapsing into him, staining his coat with her blood.)

“ _No._ ”


End file.
